He Doesn’t Love Me
Chapter 2
“Don’t worry. I’ll cover the whole cost.”
I had found myself a lawyer after the family banquet ended that day.
Sharon had poured a bucket of scalding water onto the old camphor tree right in front of me and given me a smug look.
“Let’s see if Charles still wants you when you can no longer make him any sleep balm.”
Charles always carried the sleep balm I made him. She was jealous, but there was nothing she could do about it.
I panicked and tried to save the tree, but in the process, I accidentally pushed her.
Unexpectedly, Charles ordered his men to tie me to the camphor tree all night after he witnessed it.
No matter how much I cried and screamed, he only said, “Reflect on this,” and walked away with Sharon in his arms.
I struggled until midnight. My hands turned a frightening purple from the lack of blood circulation.
The camphor tree seemed to sense my despair because its thick branch snapped…
I clung to my last ray of hope and called Charles.
The call went through, but he answered with cold indifference, “Hazel, haven’t you learned your lesson? You frightened Sharon today. I have to stay with her. Don’t bother me if you’re still alive.”
Sharon’s coquettish voice then came through the phone. “Charles, it’s your turn to bathe.”
Trembling, I hung up and lay on the ground as my tears soaked the earth.
In the end, I called Albert Moore, the lawyer.
…
We were in the living room, and Charles still believed that I was being unreasonable. “Hazel, what happened yesterday was your own doing!”
My own doing?
I chuckled softly. “Yes, it was my fault. This is exactly what I deserve.”
…
Charles and I met because of a kidnapping.
He had been locked in a pitch-black warehouse. But my father rescued him and brought him home.
His body was covered in wounds when he was found. So, my father asked me to take care of him.
We grew close as we spent time together, and we kept in touch even after he returned to his family.
Perhaps due to post-traumatic stress, he started having insomnia, and he was not responding to treatment.
He told me that whenever he closed his eyes, he would return to that rotting and suffocating warehouse. It was dark and empty, and I was not there.
It broke my heart, but I could not do anything to help.
Then one evening, he came to visit my father. He dozed off unexpectedly under the camphor tree in my garden and slept peacefully through the night.
So, I began making sleep balms from the camphor leaves and sending them to him.
He carried them with him every day, and his insomnia gradually improved.
To make sure I could always prepare fresh sleep balm for him, I gave up the chance to study abroad. Instead, I enrolled in the art program at his university.
On graduation day, he held my scarred hands and teared up looking at the wounds.
After he started working, I set aside my painting career to help expand his company by attending social events with him.
We became the best partners and quickly secured a place in the market.
One night after drinking, he held my hands and murmured that they had pulled him out of darkness.
He claimed that he wanted to hold my hand for the rest of his life.
His face was flushed, and his eyes shone like stars.
Without thinking, I nodded.
That night, we promised our lives to one another.
However, he ruined these very hands that had once saved him.
…
On the night of the family banquet, Albert took me to the hospital. The doctor told me that the nerve damage in my hands was severe and that I might never be able to hold a pen again.
Albert advised me to sue Charles for intentional harm.
I put his suggestion on the back burner and insisted on pursuing divorce first. If that did not work, I would consider additional charges.
The pain of rehabilitation dragged me out of memory lane.
The doctor looked at my hands with regret. “If only you came in an hour earlier… What a pity.”
I smiled faintly.
“It’s alright. It’s a relief.”
No more sleepless nights drawing up designs for his company.
No more painful fingers from making sleep balm for his health.
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